Lights Will Guide You Home
by the sound of
Summary: Post 'Dark Was the Night.' Callie reaches out to Erica for comfort after the death of a friend. Callie/Arizona, Callie/Erica.


Fic; lights will guide you home || Callie/Erica, Callie/Arizona || for hahns_girl

Teddy's death shocks no-one.

It is Owen who finds her, war-weary after a marathon shift at the hospital and the exhaustion of the past few weeks burrowing between his shoulder blades like screws. He stops by the apartment Teddy used to share with Henry, intending to force take out down her protesting throat, and offer worn out condolences that do little else besides fill the macabre silence haunting the too-empty space.

(Sometimes it fills with sobbing and screaming, welling against the walls like waves, and nobody is sure which is a better sign.)

They have all been trying, desperately hard, to get Teddy to eat and sleep and shower and leave the apartment and live,but when your husband dies at the hand of your protegé in the middle of a domestic where you essentially told him to fuck his dreams, because you were more important, words are empty and hollow, and cannot break through the cloud of grief that sticks to your skin like napalm.

All you can do is burn.

So it is Owen that finds her, during one of their routine check ups, naked and submerged in blood red bath water; eyes cracked wide in the same hapless stare that had haunted his nightmares in the years after Iraq.

And just like that, Teddy is nothing more than another bullet-ridden comrade ripped open and abandoned on a battlefield, and Owen can do nothing but clutch her slippery still-bleeding body in his arms, and cry for yet another soldier he could not save.

When Arizona tells you all of this, nearly nonsensical through her tears, you fold your arms around her shaking body and try to prevent the inevitable disintegration, even as your own grief settles in your stomach like lead; twists and turns the gross structure until you are sick with it.

You can barely breathe through the iron grip of Arizona's arms locked around your ribcage (you're not thinking about the tears you cannot cry leaking back inside and filling your lungs with salt when your wife is in so many pieces) and it shuts down your brain. You flicker to autopilot, stroking Arizona's hair, tightening your grip, and whispering in her ear that everything is going to be okay.

But Teddy is dead, and you are a liar.

The funeral comes five days later, and it is impossible to discern whether your dress is soaked with the grief of your wife or the icy rain hammering at your skin courtesy of the grey Seattle sky. It could be drool, you suppose, as Sofia is tucked tightly into your side; one tiny fist curls around the charcoal fabric of Arizona's blouse as her blonde head cries quietly into your shoulder.

Half the hospital is crowded around Teddy's grave, throwing handfuls of earth onto the smooth cherry wood of her coffin, the air heavy with the scent of fresh grass and wet soil. Your eyes follow what feels like the thousandth cascade of crumbling earth skittering across the wooden surface, and catch on the headstone standing to the left, nearly as freshly set as its neighbour.

His name is carved in an elegant script, something cursive, followed by the dates of his birth and death; bookends of a life cut short.

It is when your eyes trace the engraving of _beloved husband _that your throat closes up and you avert your gaze; inhale the sweet scent of Sofia's baby shampoo to remind yourself to keep breathing.

Even though it hurts more than you thought possible.

After the service, you are so past the point of drained that you can barely stay standing, and Sofia's dead weight against your chest is making your arms ache. You are viciously jealous of your daughter for one whole second, for being lost to slumber, blissfully ignorant of the loss stingly sharply behind your sternum, safe in the arms of someone who loves her unconditionally. It makes you ache for Arizona's warmth and comfort, because you lost a friend, too, and you need each other now more than you ever have.

Your fleeting scan of the graveyard finds her talking to Henry's parents. Still raw with the loss of their only son, the death of the daughter-in-law they were just getting to know stings like salt rubbed in open wounds. Arizona has a hand on his mother's back, gently soothing, as she earnestly addresses his crumple-faced father even as her bloodshot eyes blink out yet more tears, and a flash of something white hot and burning flares in your chest momentarily; it dissipates just as quickly, the anger as elusive as every other emotion plaguing your body besides exhaustion, slipping through your fingertips before you can capture it and just feel,because nothing can be worse than the numbness festering in your chest.

You owe it to Teddy to grieve for her. That much you are sure of. But right now, you do not have the energy, and the one person you need to be there for you to make breaking down a possibility is suturing somebody else's wounds, and you need to stay strong to take care of your daughter.

Your daughter, who is suddenly being pulled from your arms, and terror freezes like blocks of ice in your veins before your head snaps round and you register the solemn face of Owen Hunt as he settles a still sleeping Sofia in his arms, offering you a tired smile. 'You looked like you could use a break.'

Your triceps sigh in relief, and you work at the muscles with practiced fingers to alleviate some of the cramping. You can't bring yourself to smile back. 'Thanks.'

Owen nods, and his eyes drift towards the polished marble that marks the final resting place of his oldest friend. The blue is muted, washed out with tears, and you can almost see him reliving the moment in which he found her bloody corpse on an endless loop in the irises.

'I can't forget,' he says, and his voice is rough, almost dying on the last note of every word that leaves his downturned lips. 'I wished so many times that I could forget everything that happened in Iraq. I thought I would give… anything.' He clears his throat, smoothes one finger over Sofia's curls, stare still fixed on Teddy's grave. 'And now I've forgotten. I can't remember anything about the war. None of the loss, or the explosions, or the bloodshed. Watching my friends blown to smithereens right in front of me. It's all gone. All of it.

'Because now I remember Teddy instead,' Owen confesses, and that's when the tears start, sliding slowly down his stubbled cheeks. 'I remember letting myself into the apartment, and thinking it was too quiet. Calling her name, and my stomach churning when she didn't answer. I remember seeing the light from under the bathroom door, and just knowing what I would find when I broke it down.

'I remember how cold her skin was. How wide her eyes were. The exact shade of her blood as she bathed in it. How stiff her body was when I pulled her out of the water. The stillness beneath her skin when I…' and you can almost see the fractures split him open when he breathes out, 'when I checked for a pulse.'

You inhale deeply to quell the nausea roiling your stomach, and swallow against the bile creeping up your throat. The sleeves of your coat absorb your tears, before you reach the arms they cover towards Owen and pull your daughter against you, suddenly desperate to feel the familiar weight of her grounding you to reality, preventing the magnetic pull of fantasy from sucking you in to a world constructed of images you never want to picture.

'Teddy deserves to be remembered,' you say finally, but the silence has stretched on too long and your words come out jarring and awkward.

Owen shakes his head, and doesn't seem to notice. 'Not like that. She deserves… she shouldn't be remembered like that.'

'No,' you sigh, because he is right, and everything else is wrong. 'She shouldn't.'

Six days later, you and Owen lose your trauma patient, a thirty-two year old woman who threw herself from the top storey of her apartment complex after her husband died in a car wreck.

He calls time of death in the OR in the angriest voice you have ever heard; slams through the sliding door into the scrub room, snaps off his gloves, shouts obscenities loud enough to make the walls bleed before beginning to scrub out with violent, jerky movements. You quietly instruct the junior resident on the case to close up, and glare at the gawking scrub nurses before barreling out of the OR yourself and joining him at the sinks.

His hands are rubbed raw.

'Stop it,' you command, grabbing his shaking fists and tugging them under the pressure sensor, more than a little surprised when he obeys; the warm water stings the worn out flesh, if his wincing is anything to go by, and the raging fire burning in his eyes flickers and dies, and you watch with a sinking heart as he deflates as if skewered with a scalpel.

There is a pause, and Owen's breath hitches before he manages to speak; his hands fall from beneath the stream of water and curl around the lip of the sink, on which he leans, heavily, shoulders hunched. 'They want me to replace her. The board. They want a new head of cardio. She was my best friend, and they want me to conduct interviews, give tours of the hospital and talk salaries and surgical departments. But… I can't. How can I replace her? How can I replace her when I can't forget about her for one fucking second?'

It's a rhetorical question, but you find yourself fumbling for an answer anyway, because it's a question you want answering, too. You can't forget, and you don't want to, but you can't seem to feel anything, either, and you need to if there's ever going to be a chance of healing yourself and moving on.

You manage to mumble something along the lines of time and therapy being great healers and that you're sure the board will take over the search if he asks, that he's well within his rights to do so, but Owen shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at you for the first time during your encounter.

The look in his eyes makes you fervently wish he hadn't.

'I don't want just anybody taking her place,' he explains. 'It needs to be someone who'll work as hard as she did. Who'll care as much as she did. It will be unspeakably difficult, but I have to do it; vet every candidate myself, to make sure they're good enough.'

You nod, understanding, before all of the oxygen is crushed from your lungs when Owen asks, 'You've worked at Grace for a while. You must have known some of the old heads of cardio. Burke is clearly not an option, but… is there anyone you'd recommend for the post?'

And then all you can see are dirty blonde curls and blue eyes and lips stained cherry red from glass upon glass of merlot rosé; the scrub room disintegrates around you into a vacant car lot and the staccato beat of fading footsteps echoing harshly in the bitter night air.

(This is just a fraction of what you cannot forget.)

'No,' you reply, clearing your throat of the words and tears you are too proud to let spill out. 'No-one at all.'

(You were on fire in there.

I know.

It was hot.

I… know.

I love watching you work on a heart. You get so into it. Really… into it.

Oh, God, Callie…

You saved that man's life. Your hands, and your dedication, and compassion… you saved his life. You were amazing.

I'm, uh… I'm good at… at fixing hearts…

Yeah. Yeah, you are.)

Days pass, and nothing changes. You go to work, hack away at skeletons with bone saws and drills and hammers, the only outlet for the pain that is for the most part still strangely non-existent; you are as solid as a rock on the days you come home to find Arizona curled up on the couch, chain smoking and staring vacantly into space, or when you encounter Bailey bent over a scrub sink and cursing as she cries, or on the occasions that Owen forgets his office is largely made of glass and sits with his head in his hands, his fist slamming repeatedly into the desk that has become his second home. You offer speeches and hugs and condolences and apologies and a thousand other comforting assurances that you have been bereft of since your friend died, because it hasn't occurred to any one of these people that you might be hurting, too.

But it's fine, because you can be strong. For Arizona, and Bailey, and Owen, and Sofia. You can, because autopilot is still activated and it's second nature, almost, to hand over tissues and coffee and your shoulder to cry on, and most of the time you can hold it together.

But then you take Sofia to the park on your day off and catch the end of a softball match a group of ten year olds are playing where the pitcher is hopelessly inaccurate but electrically enthusiastic despite how much he sucks and then you are bawling and broken on a park bench with no-one but your daughter to comfort you as you cry.

And suddenly most of the time isn't good enough.

Arizona is up when you and Sofia return home, and you want nothing more than to collapse in her arms and have her hold you, but she is smoking again and the acrid smell nearly makes you vomit. You sigh, and go to put Sofia down for a nap before she can inhale the toxic fumes her mama seems determined to poison herself with.

'You shouldn't smoke those things here. It's bad for Sofia,' you chastise her as you re-enter the living room, fishing a bottle of water from the fridge. It takes a hell of a lot of willpower to bypass the open bottle of red wine, but you're not sure you trust Arizona to be able to take care of Sofia if something happens and you're passed out on the kitchen floor (and too many things in that sentence are exacerbating the nausea curdling your insides courtesy of the smoke cloaking your wife like a ghost.)

Arizona casts glazed eyes in your direction, and your breath catches at how empty they look, visible even through the thick layer of smoke. She nods distractedly; crushes the cigarette end into the ashtray on the coffee table. 'I'm sorry.'

You sigh, swallow half the bottled water to quench the sudden dryness in your throat and sit down next to her on the couch. You reach your hand out, thread your fingers through hers. They are ice cold.

'I know.'

Silence falls, and you can feel Arizona looking at you. You can't meet her gaze, for fear that the hollowness you are sure to find there will crack the frayed edges of your resolve and send you sprawling, and you are not sure if Arizona will catch you.

Your stomach twists tighter, and you wonder how things got this fucked up.

But Arizona surprises you. 'Have you been crying, Calliope?'

Your head snaps to the side, and the hollowness is there, like you expected, but concern swims just below the surface, and your breath comes easier than it has in weeks. 'Yes.'

Arizona's face creases, like the thought of it physically pains her, and the relief dissipates as swiftly as it came, prompting your hurried reassurance that it doesn't matter, though, because you are okay.

Arizona shakes her head, and her reply is little more than a whisper. 'You're not okay, Calliope. None of us are.'

The angry soundtrack to the showreel of the past few weeks bursts to life with a hiss of static in your skull, effectively silencing your immediate instinct to call Arizona a liar. Because Owen can't remember Iraq. And Bailey quit the clinical trial. Cristina won't touch a cardio surgery with a ten-foot scalpel, and Arizona is a pack of Lucky Strikes away from contracting lung cancer.

So you don't argue.

And you don't protest when Arizona pushes you down on the couch and presses her lips to yours, forces her tongue in your mouth, and promises that she can make you feel better; she tastes like ashes, and her hands leave bruises on your hips that won't fade for days.

After, she lights another cigarette, smiles when she sees your tears and says she told you so; you blame the thick haze of smoke that swallows you whole for her misconception.

(When it hits you that you no longer recognise her, you hold it accountable for that, too.)

(You've been crying. What's wrong?

Callie?

I, um. I lost my - I lost my patient.

Oh. Oh, Callie. I'm so sorry.

It's, it's okay. I'm okay.

No, you're not.

No. I'm not.

Come here. We'll stay here for a while, until you're ready to -

- Callie, stop… come on. This isn't what you need right now.

Yes, it is. Please… please, will you just -

No. It won't make anything better.

But he was so… God, he was so little. I don't want to remember that. He was so, so little, and he died in my OR and… I can't, I don't want to remember, so please, I can't, oh God, I can't -

Shh. I've got you, Callie. Just breathe. I've got you.

Thank you.

You're welcome.)

You decide to call Addison, because she never really knew Teddy all that well, and therefore you can fall to pieces through a telephone wire without worrying about anyone besides yourself.

(It's moments like these when you hate Teddy for what she has turned you into.)

You know from the second Addison picks up with a terse 'Dr. Montgomery speaking' that the call is not going to go the way you want it to, but you sigh inwardly despite this and cautiously ask, 'Addie?'

'Callie?' You decipher surprise through what sounds like defeated exhaustion. 'What's…? Listen, Cal, I'm sorry… but now is really not a good time…'

You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeeze your eyes shut. You apparently cannot break down right now. 'What's wrong, Addison?'

Your resigned exhalation prompts a strangled sob followed by a barely decipherable account of an IVF treatment that finally, finally stuck, only for Addison to wake up one night three weeks down the line drenched in sweat and blood and the remains of a second child she never got to meet.

You hang up the phone two hours later feeling worse than you have in months, grieving for Addison's loss as well as your own; your heart lies somewhere in the vicinity of the thousand mile radius between Teddy's gravestone and Addison's empty house, battered and bleeding on the asphalt of the I-5. You spend a good hour or two crying on your living room floor, more than grateful that Arizona is on call and Sofia is with Mark, and debating just how stupid making the next phone call will be.

(Stupid. Incredibly stupid. You have no doubts about that. The real question is whether or not you're desperate enough to risk ruining the new life you have built from the remnants of your old one.

And the real answer is yes.)

Hunt speaking.

Owen? It's Callie.

What do you need, Torres?

I… I have a recommendation. For the new head of cardio. You asked before, and I… I thought about it, and there's someone I think you should call.

…okay. Give me a name.

(What have you done?)

It's weeks before you hear anything. You spend your shifts working a thousand miles a minute, head down, shoulders hunched, barely breathing a word to colleagues and patients alike unless absolutely necessary.

No-one notices.

(It almost makes you feel justified.)

You feel your breath catch in your throat every time a consult takes you to the cardiothoracic wing, or past the Chief's office; the lack of oxygen that blocks up your lungs has your heart pounding hard enough to puncture them, and you can't decide if the beat is reminiscent of anticipation or trepidation.

The suspense feels like needles in your spine, pricking away at exposed nerves that are screaming in frustrated exhaustion.

(What stings sharper than this is the pressure of your sternum contracting at every flash of platinum in your peripheral vision; how when you follow the line of curls to vacant blue eyes and a decorated ring finger it releases in a rush of what feels sickeningly like disappointment.)

It happens in the elevator.

You have an early surgery, and find yourself crossing the hospital lobby at five a.m. completely catatonic and desperate for caffeine. You slump against the railing of the disturbingly empty elevator with a deep sigh, letting your eyes fall closed in utter exhaustion. Arizona keeps having nightmares, the kind where she wakes up screaming so loud the walls shake and sobbing hard enough to break her ribs. For this reason, Sofia has been sleeping at Mark's place for over a week and you have been lying awake for nights on end waiting for the inevitable breakdown, ready to staunch the flow of tears with cleverly composed words of comfort and the healing power of your naked body pressed to hers. You don't think it's helping.

Not you, anyway.

You're a hairs breadth from snoring your way to the surgical floor when the elevator dings.

Your eyelids flicker, vision blurry with fatigue as the doors gape their jaws and yawn wide open.

She is standing on the other side.

Paralysis grips you, iron-like and ice cold, and if you couldn't hear your heart pounding like a broken metronome in your ears you would be worried it had ceased to beat.

When she sees you, collapsed into the corner, her eyes colour with both pleasure and contempt, and the shades blend in a paradoxical palette that has you aching with more conflicting emotions than you care to count. You recognise fear, and comfort, the leftover sting of bitterness warring with familiarity and warmth, all drowned in the sense of overwhelming relief that floods your whole body at the closeness of her proximity.

It is the absolute absence of regret that curls your lips into your first real smile in months.

(And maybe the presence of something else entirely.)

'Erica.'

She stands there staring at you with that peculiar look on her face for so long that the elevator doors start to close. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to press the button that will hold the doors, prevent her disappearance from your life for the second time.

Because even though the first cut is the deepest, as Erica finally crosses the threshold of the elevator and settles against the wall beside you, casting you a look like maybe she's missed you as much as you have her, you can't help but think that the second would be ten times worse.

'Callie.'

She offers you the tiniest of smiles, and you think, _finally._

You arrange to meet for coffee after you finish your surgery and Erica has met with Owen. You feel torn when she tells you about meeting with Human Resources to be officially registered as the new head of cardiothoracic surgery. Part of you feels like collapsing before Teddy's grave, slamming your fists into the marble headstone and begging her to come back.

The rest of you feels relieved that there is someone to bandage your knuckles and dry your eyes should the first part prove inevitable.

You meet outside at one of the little benches lining the side of the hospital. It was your suggestion; you cited the fact that the skies were clear and blue for the first time this new year, but mostly you were acutely aware that Arizona is working today, and these benches are usually deserted of hospital staff. Erica's eyes had narrowed as if she had known what was on your mind, but she nodded a few seconds later, exiting the elevator when it spat her out on the third floor without looking back.

Now, Erica sits beside you in pristinely pressed navy scrubs and a spotless lab coat, and you can't help but stare at the stitching across the breast pocket that declares her to be a doctor at Seattle Grace-Mercy West Hospital. Your eyes trace each cross-hatched letter over and over as you try to comprehend the severity of your actions; Erica works here, now, as a department head, in the same building as you and your wife and your best friend-turned-baby daddy. Your stomach tightens at the thousands of possible ways this could blow up in your face and destroy everything you have worked so hard for, but as your gaze shifts to the familiar lines and contours of Erica's face, it loosens once again.

You are glad she is here.

'So,' you begin, nervously fiddling with the lid of your styrofoam cup, admiring the cracks in the concrete beneath your feet. 'Where have you been?'

You try so hard to not make it sound accusatory, but the anger is there, clinging to the words like water droplets; Erica's tone is equal parts defensive and guilty when she replies, 'Not far. I was working at a hospital in Tacoma.'

She pauses, seeming to contemplate her next words; they are delivered in a tone too deliberately casual to be taken so. 'I couldn't leave Washington.'

You swallow, and glance sideways; Erica's eyes burn bright with an apology you can't stand to hear right now, because the sorrow of everything the two of you never got the chance to be is probably the straw that will break you into tiny shards of turmoil all over the concrete. You shake your head, and Erica nods, and you both opt to turn away to watch the crimson light of dawn climb over the skyline in favour of counting the scarlet marks you have left on each other.

You are both silent for a long time, and your untouched coffee is cold when Erica speaks again. 'Izzie Stevens came to work at my hospital two years ago.'

You blink, and almost smile at the possessive tone of her voice. 'Yeah. Grey told me that's where she'd gone.' Dryly, you add, 'Not the most pleasant reunion, I'm guessing?'

Erica shrugs, the cadence of her words far softer than you were expecting when she responds, 'It wasn't catastrophic. I didn't rip her head off, if that's what you're thinking.'

'I wouldn't have been surprised.'

Erica nods, conceding. 'I got less angry about it, with time. I got less angry about… a lot of things.'

You swallow again, and chance a look in her direction. Her brow is raised pointedly, apologetically, and you mirror the expression as best you can when you reply, 'Yeah. Me, too.'

And you're not counting, you insist inwardly, you are watching the sunrise, but if you were counting, if you weren't deliberately not paying attention, you are sure you would see the scarlet marks beginning to heal, slowly. One at a time.

'Stevens told me you got married a few months ago. And that you had a baby.'

You freeze. It's not like you thought you could keep these things from Erica - and it's not like you wanted to - but you were hoping to delay the revelations a little longer than this. You are not sure why; you suppose it is because you still see your life before with Erica as separate to the life you live now, even though it is you who has merged the two together in what can only end up as a mess of massive proportions.

You hear confusion underneath the matter of factness laced through Erica's words, and you feel a touch of guilt and unease. She is wondering why you wanted her back here, why you wanted her to uproot her life to return to Seattle when you have moved on without her. And she is wondering why the hell she agreed.

'Congratulations.' You expect bitterness, maybe contempt. You hear neither.

It bothers you more than it should.

You thank her quietly before draining your cup of coffee in three long swallows, wincing as the cool liquid settles in your stomach and chills you from the inside out. You ignore the expectant nature of Erica's silence, because it's not like you know - and it's not like you want to - why you recommended her to Owen in the first place. Why you want her here.

You just know that you do.

Erica sighs, frustrated with your lack of forthcoming clarification, and your eyes drift from the slowly bruising sky to the angry, defeated creases in her face. With your heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird against your sternum, you reach out with your free hand and thread your fingers through Erica's. They are soft and warm.

'I'm sorry,' you say, squeezing tightly, and meaning it viscerally, because you know this will not end well.

Her hand remains immobile entwined with yours, but you do not crack wide open when she replies, equally as earnest, 'I'm sorry, too.'

The sun stops rising, and you go your separate ways.

'I met Erica Hahn today.'

Arizona sounds suspicious, but not accusatory, and it is that and only that that prevents you from dropping the pan full of pasta and boiling water you are carrying on your way to the sink to drain it. You do so thoroughly, buying some time for the flush in your face to fade and your heart rate to return to normal.

You don't think about why you are so anxious. You can't, because it will drive you insane.

You leave the collinder in the sink, set the sauce to simmer on the stove, and prop yourself up on the opposite side of the marble countertop to Arizona. She is sitting on one of the many bar stools, Sofia cradled in her arms, happily munching away on a rusk. You can't help but smile at your daughter, and press a kiss to the crown of her head; you hesitate for the briefest of seconds before shifting upwards to catch Arizona's lips with your own, fleetingly.

'Yeah,' you say, pulling back, taking a swig from your wine glass as you settle onto a bar stool yourself. 'Today was her first day, I think. The board were pressuring Hunt for a new head of cardio.' Before Arizona has a chance to dissolve into tears or ask more questions, you fire one at her. 'Did she consult on a peds case?'

Arizona considers you for a long moment, absentmindedly running her fingers along the smooth skin of Sofia's pudgy little arm, and you raise an eyebrow to prompt her into replying (and to cover the furious pounding of your heart against your ribs, but you are praying to God she doesn't pick up on that.) Finally, Arizona nods. 'Yeah. Fourteen year old boy with noncompaction cardiomyopathy. His arrythmias are pretty bad, so we put in a pacemaker, but it looks like he'll eventually need a transplant.'

You nod, remembering an old case of Erica's where the same thing was true for a thirty-four year old father-of-two. He died before UNOS found him a suitable donor. 'I'm sure he'll pull through. You guys are both great surgeons.'

'Yeah. She was awesome in the OR. The surgery went off without a hitch.'

You can't help but feel like Arizona is baiting you, and the fact that she feels the need to do so makes you feel guilty and nervous and (unjustifiably) angry all at once. 'That's great,' you say, draining your wine glass.

Arizona murmurs her assent, and you turn back to the stove and finish making dinner. You try desperately hard throughout the evening to convince yourself that Arizona has no need to be suspicious about anything, because nothing is going on with you and Erica.

Absolutely nothing.

Later, when the two of you sit on opposite ends of the dining room table with untouched plates of pasta in front of you, Arizona whispers the question over the rim of her almost empty wine glass; the shaky exhalation of her words clouds the clear-cut crystal with condensation.

'Is she here because of you, Calliope?'

There are too many different ways you could interpret this, and too many of the answers could be 'yes'.

You catch the poorly disguised distraught look on Arizona's face, the tightness of her grip around her glass, the sickening scent of smoke that clings to her clothes like an old friend. Guilt curdles in your stomach, sloshing around in the alcohol until you feel sick.

'No,' you promise, vehemently. 'She's not.'

(This lie is only the first of many.)

Exactly thirty-two days after Teddy's death she would have turned forty.

You had entered the empty attendings' lounge after a sixteen hour shift intending to go home to Arizona and Sofia and sleep, but your eyes had caught on Teddy's empty cubby and you'd remembered teasing her about the upcoming day that would mark her fourth decade on earth, Henry and Arizona laughing in the background at her pouting indignation.

And then you were catatonic and unable to think about anything else besides the fact that your friend was dead and never coming back.

Through the thick haze of painful memories you somehow manage to register that Erica has materialised beside you, her hand gently shaking your shoulder as she settles on the wooden bench stretching across the length of the room that you have taken refuge on.

'Callie?' she calls, her hand shifting to your chin to make your eyes fix on hers, which are narrowed in concern and just the slightest hint of frustration when you fail to respond her once more. 'Callie, what's wrong?'

You blink at her, feeling strangely disconnected from reality. Her hands are warm against your skin, and the gentle heat grounds you enough to speak. 'Today is Teddy's birthday.'

Understanding breaks like a new dawn in her dark blue irises, and you did not tell her you had a friend who committed suicide, and that is who she has replaced as head of cardio, but you are infinitely glad she knows already because you don't think you could form the words to tell her.

'She would have been so mad by the end of the day,' you continue, 'because we wouldn't have stopped teasing her for being past it. She'd have her hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised and she'd be lecturing us like we were interns about how stupid and immature we are.

'But then we'd have taken her to Joe's and poured drinks down her throat all night, and Henry would have been charming and flirty and making her smile every two seconds, and Arizona would demand we all wear paper party hats and blow those stupid crinkly trumpet things after we'd sung happy birthday, and Mark would have actually stuck forty candles in the goddamn cake, those ones that don't blow out, probably, just to piss her off even more, and we'd all be laughing at the embarrassing stories Owen would tell about their days in the army together and none of this shit would be happening right now.'

The end of your tirade finds you breathing heavily and registering Erica's look of sympathy through blurry eyes; they have been too wet for too long and crying out for someone to dry them instead of your wrinkled shirt sleeves, and as Erica wraps her arms around you, almost skin tight, the pressure breaks your fragile body along the cracks of grief carved weeks ago by the slow slide of a scalpel across Teddy's skin and she never even said goodbye.

You cry into Erica's shoulder until her clavicle is slippery beneath your cheek and her scrub top is rough and scratchy and waterlogged against your chin. Each sob threatens to split your ribcage wide open and dump your internal organs over the linoleum floor, but Erica's grip never slackens and she somehow manages to hold you together; every time you choke all of the oxygen from your lungs until you are burning from the inside out, near to bursting at the seams, Erica whispers something in your ear, and the soft caress of her breath against your skin reminds your intercostal muscles and diaphragm to contract again and force air into your lungs to keep you breathing.

It's what you have needed since the beginning, since that night Arizona collapsed in your arms and you lost a part of her forever, since you watched your friend buried beneath six feet of soil next to her dead husband and couldn't cry because no-one was there to tell you you could, since you lost two members of the new family you had to build for yourself when the one forged in blood abandoned you forever.

You cry for Teddy, a woman you loved fiercely, in the arms of someone you loved the same yet entirely different, and feel the cracks begin to cauterise as muscle fibres fuse together beneath Erica's soothing hands.

And so the healing begins.

You come home to silence, broken only by the sound of Sofia's deep, even breaths through the baby monitor perched on the kitchen countertop and the sound of the shower running in the en suite bathroom. You follow the drumming of the droplets with zombie-like movements, emotionally drained from your crying jag in Erica's arms, and desperate to wash away the guilt her touch has bathed you in. You think it might make Arizona smile, climbing in behind her and running your fingers along her wet skin, and you need to feel her against you to displace whatever traces of Erica still remain.

Not that it meant anything. You needed a friend. The two of you were friends, once.

(Until you were so much more.)

Arizona doesn't hear the padding of your footsteps on the carpet of your bedroom floor, or the crumpling of your clothes against the bathroom tile. You slip in the shower undetected and press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the back of her neck, her guttural moans echoing off the sheets of glass that enclose you. She spins round and traps you against the wall, and with her wet hair slicked back from her face there is no hiding from the pain pinched in her expression.

You know what she is scared of, because you are scared of it too, and what you need more than anything right now is for her to remind you why neither of you needs to be afraid.

'I love you,' you say, and mean it viscerally.

She stares at you, scrutinising, before her face relaxes and she returns the sentiment; then her lips are on yours and her hand is between your thighs and the world around you obliterates.

It fades back into focus to the furious rhythm of her heart beating in time with yours, and she rests her forehead against your own as your breathing returns to normal. Your eyes flicker open to find hers only millimetres away; they remind you of the Seattle sky, perpetually empty of light and brimming with water, and you find yourself wondering - not for the first time - if the woman you married is ever coming back.

The water spills over, tracks salt down her cheeks, and the answer that echoes in your skull is terrifying.

Your daughter is undoubtedly the best thing that has ever happened to you; your breath still catches in your throat every time she smiles, or laughs, or rolls over, or is out of your sight for any longer than ten seconds, even though it's been nearly a year since you were blessed with this little bundle of joy. She is truly beautiful, and you didn't know it was possible to love somebody this much, but you do. She means the world to you.

Even when she screams bloody murder in the hospital lobby where you're waiting for Arizona to finish her shift so you can go home and stop receiving death glares from pissed off bystanders.

'Come on, Sofia,' you coo, jiggling her in your arms as you pace from one end of the room to the other, trying to soothe her into sleep. She is having none of it, and her screeching only increases when you press kisses to her hair and forehead, and even though she's a baby and it's not intentional the rejection stings rather poignantly, especially because if Arizona were here she'd have stopped screaming at the first glimpse of her mama's super magic smile.

'Need a hand?'

Erica looks uncomfortable but earnest, halfway to the exit and dressed in her street clothes with one hand vaguely gesturing to your still wailing daughter, the other clamped round her car keys. You shouldn't accept the offer, because you are in full view of many a gossiping nurse, and Arizona is due to meet you any minute, and it's dangerous territory, but your arms are aching and people are still glaring and Sofia takes well to strangers, so you nod at Erica and hand her the baby with a grateful smile.

Sofia immediately goes quiet.

Erica looks shocked, and her mouth falls open a little as Sofia reaches a hand towards her face and touches her tiny little fingers to it, her own chubby cheeks splitting into a wide, toothless grin at the new friend she has to play with. Erica swallows, and awkwardly pats her back. 'Hello, Sofia,' she greets, very formally, and you can't help but snort.

'Shut up,' Erica shoots at you, smiling despite herself. 'I don't spend much time with children.'

'It shows.'

'I got her to stop crying, didn't I?' Erica retorts dryly, jerking her head towards Sofia, who is now slobbering on the lapel of Erica's coat.

'Sorry about that,' you laugh, gently extricating the material from your daughter's mouth and praying she doesn't start bawling again. 'We think she's teething.'

Erica smiles a little, watching Sofia bat your hands away and resume her chewing. 'I don't mind. It will only get soaked the second I step outside, anyway.'

'You can go, if I'm keeping you from something - '

'You're not. I'm good here.'

You share a look then, one you don't dare to read too much into. Instead, you curl the fingers of your left hand into a fist and feel the warm hardness of your wedding ring pressing against your second and fourth fingers.

You try not to think about the pain of it biting into your flesh; focus instead on the slight weight of the metal reminding you of all that you stand to lose.

'She looks a lot like Sloan,' Erica observes, breaking away first to settle into one of the worn out chairs lining the walls of the lobby, and waiting for you to join her before continuing. 'It's mostly you, obviously, but she's definitely her father's daughter.'

There is a pointedness to her words that you can't quite follow, and your comprehension isn't helped by Erica's refusal to look you in the eye. She chooses instead to offer Sofia her car keys to play with when it looks like she might start screaming again, stifling a smile when the baby immediately shoves the leather key tag in her mouth and drools all over it.

Erica cuts you off before your reply is fully formed, her words carefully crafted and cold. 'How did Arizona take the news that you wanted to use Mark Sloan as your sperm donor?'

It hits you then, what she is getting at, and this time it is you who cannot meet the flashing anger in her eyes, because she is not the only one who made mistakes three years ago.

'We were broken up when I got pregnant,' you defend yourself, toying with the sleeves of your jacket. 'Really, actually broken up. Arizona was in Africa… she won the Carter-Madison grant. I was supposed to go with her, but it didn't work out and I thought we were done for good. I was hurting, and Mark was there, and it just… happened.'

You see Erica nod sharply in your peripheral vision, watch her jingle the keys Sofia is now mesmerised by in a jaunty little tune. The squeal of joy the sound evokes from your daughter makes your chest feel tight in the same way it does when you watch Sofia and Arizona have a splash fight at bath times, and suddenly the tightness feels like something that might expand and explode and unravel the already fraying edges of your happily-ever-after.

'She sounds like a much more forgiving person than I am.'

You force yourself to face her this time, touching your palm to her shoulder to make her look you in the eye. You read pain and anger in the gaze staring back at you, and the pressure of the guilt building behind your sternum makes you fear that the explosion is closer than you first thought. 'I'm sorry, Erica. I should never have slept with Mark while we were together. I know how much it hurts to be betrayed like that.'

Erica's glare sharpens. 'And now so does Arizona.'

Your hand slips from her shoulder, falls listlessly into your lap. 'I already told you that we were - '

'It doesn't matter! She is forever going to feel like an outsider in whatever little arrangement you have going on. How could she not, when the child she only wanted to share with you has Mark Sloan's eyes?'

You shake your head, unable to believe what you are hearing while simultaneously praying to God that Erica is wrong. 'Arizona and I are happy,' you reply, your voice low and spearing every syllable you speak with the bolts of anger flaring up your spine. Desperate for reassurance, you pull your daughter into your arms and hug her tightly to your chest. 'She loves Sofia, and she knows that Sofia is _our_ daughter, not just mine and Mark's. You have no idea what you are talking about.'

Erica flies to her feet in a rage, towers over you as she delivers more blows to build up the bruises on your heart. 'Of course I do! Why do you think I left?'

'I don't know why you left, Erica, because you just abandoned me in the goddamn parking lot without so much as a goodbye - '

'I left because I knew I was never going to have you. Not all of you, not the way I wanted. I was seeing leaves, because you were my glasses, and you were seeing Mark fucking Sloan. I do know what I am talking about. I know exactly how Arizona feels, Callie, because she is me three years ago.'

'You don't get to judge me, Erica, or my marriage, or my family,' you declare, your hands shaking as you run them over Sofia's back, desperately trying to draw comfort from the beautiful consequence of all your bad decisions. 'It's not ideal, but it works, and we are happy with the way things are - '

'Then why did you bring me out here? Why did you want me back?' And there are tears now, angry ones, burning tracks down the face of a woman you have brought more pain to than you ever realised. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, but her hunched shoulders and the broken timbre of her voice screams defeat. 'You're talking about how bad cheating on me was and how much you regret it, but here I am in Seattle at your beck and call with your _wife_ working in the same building! If you and Arizona are so fucking happy with a child that doesn't belong to her and never really will, then why are we even having this conversation?'

That is a question to which you have never known the answer, but you do know that whatever your reasoning, it was not so that Erica could unearth the truths you have always feared (but would never admit to), pull the pins out of each and every one and watch your life disintegrate to ashes. You needed someone, after Teddy, but Arizona and Bailey and Owen and Addison were too caught up in their own grief to even notice yours, and you felt like you were drowning, and you needed someone to help you to breathe again.

As Erica storms past you and disappears into the parking lot for the second time in three years, you can't help but feel like you are suffocating.

The relief that hits you when you pass Erica in the hallway on your way to CT with your fractured clavicle patient is so potent you are almost dizzy with it; it is quickly followed by the familiar curling of guilt between your ribs, because you love Arizona, you do, and Erica was wrong about everything, but repeating that as a mantra that echoes in your head as your patient is loaded into the CT machine does little to alleviate the dizzy nauseousness clinging to the edges of your conscience.

Which is very much not good news when Mr. Hobarty starts coding before the images have time to load on the screen, and you are slow to react with defibrillators and epinephrine and the order to book an OR and page cardio, stat.

You are elbow deep in a man's chest cavity trying to stop his heart wall from bleeding from the punctures that shards of his own clavicle bone have torn into it when Erica arrives.

You are not sure whether the silence between you is born out of festering anger and resentment or the simple fact that the two of you do not need to communicate with words to save this man's life, but both possibilities add a lingering sense of unease to the long list of afflictions affecting your conscience.

When the surgery is over, and you are srcubbing the skin off your hands at the OR sinks, Erica a seething pillar of rage beside you, you make the decision that whatever the hell is going on between you needs to stop now. Because that man could have died today, and the blame would have been placed squarely on your shoulders for your total inability to concentrate where Erica Hahn is concerned, and your skin is already threatening to split open with the guilt that has been slowly swallowing you whole since the day you made that stupid phone call.

You take a deep breath, and let it out as a defeated sigh as the water rushes between the cracks of your fingers. 'I thought that maybe you had left again, last night.'

Erica snorts. 'Would you have cared?'

'Of course I would have,' you fire back, shutting off the water angrily, tearing a piece of paper towel from the dispenser and crumpling it between your fists. Erica casts you a surprised glance, before sighing in defeat and moving to the other side of the room, leaning against the door for support. She levels you with a challenging look, and demands, 'Why?'

Your mouth opens and closes unattractively for several long seconds, your angry indignation slipping out of grasp as you realise it is completely unwarranted. Erica is right. You should not care.

But you do. 'Because you and I are - we have history, and - '

'And that's exactly what it should have stayed, Callie. You should have left it in the past. You didn't need to dig it up and make me uproot my life when yours got hard for a little while.'

'You didn't have to come,' you argue, reacting to the accusatory tone in Erica's voice. The anger seeps slowly back inside, inflates your lungs with more poisonous words. You made mistakes, yes, but it takes two to cause this kind of destruction. 'Why did you? If you knew it was so immoral, and that we were so over, and that it would be rubbing salt in old wounds, why did you come back?'

And this, right here, is the moment. The one you would pinpoint if somebody ever asked. The moment where all of the maybes ceased to be maybes and definitives took over instead, carving a fork in the road you had seen coming but were telling yourself you were hoping to avoid.

(And you were, on so many levels, because Arizona does not deserve this, and this is not the kind of person you ever wanted to be, but you're starting to think it was kind of inevitable.)

Erica's lashes curl when the tears she doesn't want to cry catch on the charcoal tendrils, and the honesty that shines fire bright in her face burns more than her anger ever could. Her eyes meet yours dead on. 'I had to know if you still loved me, the way that I love you.'

And that is the catalyst to the explosion that is the two of you crashing together like waves; you pin Erica to the door and press your lips to hers, emitting a strangled sound from your throat at the beautiful familiarity of the soft touch of her tongue to yours, the sure slide of her hands into your hair as she pulls you flush against her.

And just like that, you know why you needed her to be here for you when no-one else could. She was your first. The first woman you ever kissed, and made love with, and made a life with, and fell in love with, and the comfort you draw from the pressure of her lips on your jaw, your neck, the flesh directly above your racing heart, is almost enough to dull the ache of loss that reverberates through your ribcage constantly, a painful reminder of everything that is wrong with your life soothed by the gentle caress of everything that is right about it. She still feels the same, her skin warm and wet with perspiration against your own. The familiarity is a stark contrast to the estrangement you taste on Arizona's lips when you kiss her in place of talking about the ghosts that are pushing you farther apart than the scorching heat of Africa ever did.

(You can admit it to yourself now, that this has been a long time coming, that when Arizona abandoned you in an airport and tracked ten thousand miles between you the disintegration began and you have been dissolving ever since. That when she returned, begging for you to take her back, it was not her tendency to bail that had you vehemently refusing to forgive and offer a second chance.

It was the crater where your heart used to be, and the dying children she had left behind, and the baby growing in your womb that she had never wanted to begin with, and the sick certainty stirring in your gut that you both deserved better. So you had told her about your betrayal and the baby, and she had still wanted the both of you, and somebody was better than nobody and you had married her before she had the chance to change her mind in the blind hope that somehow everything would work out in the end.

You should not be doing this, because Arizona is your wife, and you cannot imagine the mess this will make of her, but it's almost magnetic, the push and pull of Erica's body to yours; the product of forces out of your control. You and Arizona are not the same people you once were, and this is not how you imagined your life would turn out, and even though Erica left you just the same, she created the tangled mess in your chest that Arizona was supposed to fix.

And you're starting to realise that the only person who can fix you is the same one that broke you in the first place.)

Erica pushes away from the door, her mouth still slanted over yours, and lowers you to the floor with careful movements. The tile is cold against the strip of skin uncovered by Erica's hands pushing your shirt up slightly as they slide beneath it, but then her thumb circles your nipple and her hand is warm between your thighs and her mouth is hot and wanting against your own and euphoria roars up your spine and whites out the world around you until all you can feel and see and smell is Erica.

You lie there panting, unable to catch your breath, as Erica arches above you wearing a smile you haven't seen in years; it still warms your heart the way it used to, the way it always will do, and for the life of you you cannot fathom how you lived without this for so long.

Your bodies curl around each other, shaking with the strength of emotions that you never really had enough time to feel, and you can't help but hope to keep reliving the past, over and over again.

In the end, you don't even have to say the words; Arizona takes one look at you as you stumble into your apartment (having dropped Sofia off at Mark's just minutes before), your face and stomach twisted with the guilt that has been sticking to your skin for weeks, and just knows where you have been and what you have been doing.

The look on her face is making you feel sick, and even though you deserve it, you reach out to touch her to try and take the pain away.

She slaps you across the face with an open palm.

'Arizona - '

'Don't, Calliope,' she warns. Her voice is paper thin and perforated, and it is killing you. 'Just don't say anything.'

She makes a move towards the door and you panic, blindly grabbing at her hand. She starts screaming at you, trying to tug herself free of your grip, but you fold both arms around her and hold on tight as her fists thump at your back and she breaks apart in your embrace.

'I'm so, so sorry,' you choke out, because how could you, how could you ever, because you know the pain of the person you love with everything you have falling into someone else's arms, and you can almost feel the blood on your hands from where you have torn Arizona's heart to shreds. You wish you could take it back more than anything, because no matter how broken the two of you have become you never wanted to hurt her like this.

Arizona is sobbing so hard she cannot breathe, and the raw sound of her pain echoes harshly in your head like gunshots. It makes you long for her to hit you harder, burst your blood vessels and split your skin because it is less than you deserve when you are sick with the scent of somebody else.

She pulls away suddenly, shaky on her feet, and still crying too hard to speak properly. Her words are almost indecipherable. 'I was waiting for you,' she begins, her face pinched tight and bright red with the exertion of crying herself dry, 'to come home, so that I could apologise. Because I bailed again, when you needed me… because you've been holding me together since Teddy died, and I was never there for you. I was going to tell you that I didn't mean to bail this time, but I couldn't… Teddy was my best friend, and she killed herself, and I couldn't…'

Arizona shakes her head, roughly runs the heels of her palms across her eyes, and takes a deep breath. 'It brought back memories of my brother. I know I told you he died… but I never told you how, and I was going to tell you that… that he suffered from PTSD, because of the war, and he couldn't forget any of what happened, and one day he decided he'd had enough and he… he put his own gun to his head and pulled the trigger…'

You reach for her again, because she looks seconds from collapsing, but she screams at you not to touch her, and you have never felt more guilty about anything in your entire life.

'I was going to tell you all these things,' Arizona cries, 'and also that I love you, and that we could get through this together, but now… now I can't even look at you.'

'Arizona, I am so, so sorry.' You are crying nearly as hard as she is, and you are glad of it, because it means that the heartbroken look on her face is blurred and out of focus and you cannot see the extent of the damage you have done. 'I didn't mean to, I swear, I never wanted to hurt you - '

'So, what, it was an accident?' Arizona explodes, sobbing hysterically and leaning against the kitchen counter top to keep herself upright. 'You didn't really mean to fuck her?'

You flinch, and move slowly towards her to counteract the feeling in your gut that she is slowly slipping away from you. 'I didn't plan on any of this happening! But you were… fuck, you were broken, Arizona, and I knew that I needed to take care of you, and I wanted to take care of you, but I needed somebody, too.'

'So you called your ex-girlfriend to kiss it and make it all better? You got her to fuck you when I was in pieces because I lost my best friend? While I was taking care of our daughter?'

'Tonight was the first time, I swear, it was the first time anything ever happened - '

'It doesn't matter!' Arizona's hands fist in her hair, tugging at the blonde strands hard enough to pull them out. She screws her eyes shut, and you know she is trying desperately hard not to picture your betrayal. She screams in frustration, more tears leaking out of her bloodshot eyes, and you find yourself choking on the lump in your throat as you fight the urge to vomit. 'I can't believe you would… how could you? I know I was selfish, and that things weren't great between us, but we were okay,' she cries. 'We were doing okay.'

You shake your head, press your lips together to keep your tears inside. 'Things haven't been great with us for a while, Arizona. Not since you left for Africa - '

Arizona's eyes flash, and she points one finger at you with deadly precision. 'Don't you dare try and blame this on me - '

'I'm not! But you left, and I was a mess without you. You put work first, and me second, and even when you came back, I never got over it, not completely. And then I got pregnant, and you said you were all in, but we both know it's not what you wanted. You told me yourself that this wasn't your dream, that your dream didn't look like this, and that you never forgot that Sofia was Mark's kid. This is not the life you want and you know it.'

'It's the life I chose!' she argues, turning away from you in what you assume is disgust and pressing her palms flat to the marble surface of the kitchen counter, her shoulders tensing at the strain of not falling to the tile and shattering with the impact. 'It's not perfect, and it's not what I planned, but I love you and I love Sofia, and she is my daughter, too, and you can't, you can't take that away from me, you can't take her away…'

You watch as she visibly deflates before you, seized by body wracking sobs once more. You cross the length of your living room with slow, nervous steps, and stand beside her with your heart beating in your throat. You hesitate for several long seconds before gently placing a hand between her shoulderblades. She flinches violently, and tries to shrug you off, but you increase the pressure and bend over so that your face is close to hers.

'Arizona… of course I won't take her away. I screwed up, I know I screwed up and I am so, so sorry, but I know that you love her. I know that you're her mom, too. I'm not going to take her away, but you… you deserve better than this. You deserve to be with someone who can give you everything. Who you don't have to share with anybody else. You hate that it's not just us, and that it never will be. Mark's always going to be there, and you won't ever be able to accept that.'

Arizona swallows, fights to get her tears and convulsions under control before responding, her voice speared with spite, 'And Erica can?'

You shake your head, mindless of the fact that she still won't meet your gaze. 'I don't know. This isn't about her. This is about us. I love you, I do, more than anything, but… we don't fit in each other's lives anymore.' You feel your already battered and bleeding heart throb at the thought, and your voice is brimming with regret when you add, 'I wish to God we did, but we don't.'

Arizona takes a deep shuddering breath, and takes a moment to clear the tears from both of her eyes before steeling herself and turning to look at you. Her eyes and face are red, and slick with tears, and the look she is giving you, like she's been eviscerated, run through with the sharp edge of a blade a thousand times over and left to spill her insides out in a pile at your feet, makes you determined to hold her gaze because you deserve to feel the same agony that she does.

It increases tenfold when she asks, in the smallest voice you have ever heard, 'You wouldn't try again, would you? If I could forgive you, if I gave you a second chance… if I asked you to stay with me, you wouldn't. Because you want to be with her.'

You want to lie to her so badly, but Arizona would see straight through you, and she deserves your honesty, no matter how much it will hurt the both of you. 'I don't want to be with someone who resents a part of our life together, who isn't happy with the way things are. It's not fair on either of us, and in the long run, it would only bring more pain.'

'So this is it?' she asks, her eyes as wide as a winter sky and begging you to contradict her. 'We're over?'

'I'm so sorry, Arizona.'

This time, when her face crumples into the very definition of heartbroken and she collapses to the floor, she doesn't protest when you wrap your arms around her and try to tell her through touch what you know you cannot articulate with words without falling to pieces yourself.

You will always love her, but this time, that just isn't enough.

It's two in the morning when you finally manage to stop crying, the bitterly cold January air stinging your salty eyes and threatening to make you start again. You bury your hands deep in the pockets of your coat, stamp your feet together on the concrete and count the cracks carved into the wood of the bench you are shivering on to pass the time until Erica arrives to meet you.

You have moved onto stars - which tallied at two hundred and eighty three before you lost your place in the expanse of black and had to start over - by the time you see headlights glare at the concrete beneath your feet as her car pulls into the almost empty lot beside yours. The lights cut out and her footsteps echo like drum beats towards you as you continue to track the movement of charcoal clouds across the glittering sky.

Erica slows to a stop before you, invading your line of sight, and your eyes drop from the heavens to the moon white shade of her face. She looks tired, regarding you through half-lidded eyes that speak of wariness as well as exhaustion, and you can hardly blame her, considering the way you left things earlier.

'I'm sorry,' you begin, and you have apologised more times tonight than you ever want to need to again. 'I didn't mean to just run out, earlier, after… but I had to speak to Arizona.'

Erica cocks her head, her eyes narrowing further as she observes you apprehensively. 'You told her?'

You nod, stifling tears as you recall the conversation with unerring clarity, your throat throbbing with muscle memory as you draw a shaky hand across your raw, red eyes to clear the moisture that gathers there despite yourself. 'I had to. You were right, about everything. She deserves better than me.' You pause, fix her with a look as exhausted as the one wearing lines in her own face. 'So do you.'

Erica sighs, lets her eyes drift skyward, as if searching for strength from some higher power, before she settles herself beside you on the bench and mimics your analysis of the sky. She sounds sincere when she offers, 'I didn't want to be right.'

'I know.'

Erica sighs again, crosses her legs at the ankles, and turns to face you side on. 'I was hurt when you slept with Sloan. I thought we were exclusive, and the thought of sharing you with him did not sit well with me.' Erica pauses to collect her thoughts, clears her throat of anything that might sound like weakness, and continues, 'But that was a long time ago. I understand why you did it. And now, the two of you having Sofia together… you didn't betray me. I don't resent you for it. It's not the same for me as it is for Arizona.'

'But can you handle it?' you ask, and the dread curdling your stomach makes your voice whisper quiet, because if the answer is no then you will lose her for the second time, and you are sure that the fear that gripped you in that elevator all those weeks ago was warranted, because you are certain you could not survive the loss again. 'Sofia is the most important part of my life, and she always will be. She always comes first. She already has three parents - '

'Do you think she could manage a fourth?'

Your head snaps round so fast you can almost hear the vertebrae cracking like gunshots. Erica looks shit scared, but earnest, and determined, and like she loves you; every bit the picture perfect replica of a new parent. You can barely manage to breathe a response. 'Erica…'

Erica swallows, fixes her eyes on the sky once more, tries to cough away the lump in her throat. 'What happened earlier… I haven't felt like that in a long time. Not since you and I were last together. I tried to find somebody, after I left, but nobody - ' She shakes her head, drops her chin to her chest, and her voice wavers as she admits, 'nobody else has ever been glasses for me. You're the only person that I have ever been myself with, and I don't want to let you go again. I shouldn't have left in the first place. I was stupid, and scared, and selfish, and I'm still all those things, but I think that maybe it doesn't matter this time around, because things will be different. One of those things is Sofia.' Erica manages to look at you again, and a smile blooms on her face like orange blossoms in spring. 'I could do it, you know. I want to do it. Be a part of her life. She's really beautiful, Callie.'

Your grin splits your face nearly in two, because things are finally falling into place. 'Yeah. Yeah, she is.'

You are both quiet for a while, then, but the few inches of space on the bench between you are cluttered with the conversation that is still unfinished, so you take a deep breath, steel yourself, and start talking again. 'Look, Erica… Arizona wasn't a replacement. I love her, and that's not going to change anytime soon,' you say gently, but you can still feel her flinch beside you. Aching, you grab her hand, lock your icy fingers with her warm ones and squeeze, tight, adding, 'but today, with you… it was so wrong of me, to do that to her, but it felt the same way it did before. Like I was finding myself for the first time, like up until now I'd been searching in all the wrong places for something I got right three years ago.'

'We never should have let each other go,' Erica exhales, running her thumb over the back of your hand in sweeping circles as if to illustrate the point.

'But it's not too late right?' You sound desperate, and more than a little scared. 'We can try again?'

'You still love Arizona.' This is fact, and not something you will get over easily, but it does not mean what Erica thinks it does.

You tug her round to face you with your interlocked hands, and press your forehead to hers to catch the moment that the painful uncertainty is wiped from her eyes. 'I do still love her,' you concede, and the pain sharpens to knife points and makes her eyes bleed salty tears, so you hurry to add, 'but you were my first. And I may have repressed it, and tried to forget it, and never have even admitted it to myself or you in the first place but… I do still love you. Like you love me.'

And just like that, the uneasy mix of tortured exhaustion and painful doubt that's been haunting Erica's eyes since she first returned to Seattle dissipates like winter mist, and instead the sea of clear blue before you is lit up with hope and relief. It was never really a choice, you realise, as your fingers reach out to curl around the curve of her face, so much as a foregone conclusion; this is the first woman you ever fell in love with, and the part of your heart that still belongs to her could never let you forget it.

You kiss on a bench outside the hospital not ten feet from where Erica walked away from you the first time, but the feel of her warm fingers splayed against your back, the pressure of them against your nape, and the string of apologies and promises you can taste on her tongue, lets you know that this time, she is holding on tight.

And this time, your grip is just as strong.


End file.
